I don't know what I don't like, but I don't not like Bill Leak.
Roll model? It warms the cockles that Sir Billy Snedden has been such a positive influence on his son Drew:
THE mystery woman who was with former Liberal leader Sir Billy Snedden on the night he died, had also been his son's lover.
"[Dad] had a number of lady friends around Australia and abroad. He got around a lot," he said.
"And on the night he died he'd just been welcomed back into the Liberal fold and he was at his political best.
"It was an adrenalin-filled evening.
"I'm sure the old man went out happy -- anyone would be proud to die on the job."
Does this mean Prue Acton is out of the frame?
Men's fashions are a disaster this season. Don't get me wrong, I'm no style-hound trolling the shops, desperate to look a million dollars, but I do like a nice bit of shmutter.
Should you happen to be in a Country Road, Myers, David Jones, et cetera* take a look around, it's 1985 again. Pastels, stripes, pinks, rubbish. The designers obviously aren't trying. If you are still then tempted to shell out big for anything you see there, ask yourself this: Would Ralph Lauren himself choose to wear this wreckage?
* Et cetera: Latin for et cetera.
Take my word of it, or don't, Leaping Larry L knows his pungent bulbs. Onions, that is. Proper football, fillums, music, and of course Sports Entertainment. So when I say check him out because he says check them out - check hem out. I can't be more conclusive than that.
Sadly Leapster's blog is mostly a warehouse for out-takes. It'd be great were he to write regular posts on music, because when it comes to "current alternative stuff that sounds like rock music, plus some 60s garage-punk stuff, the odd 70s chestnut, and some rabble-rousing metal from various eras" there isn't a finer tuned radar in this wide brown Straya.
While you're at it, if you're at it, presuming you're not already at it, check out his take on Fox Footy.
Meanwhile, I'm off for a haircut.
I'm convinced Nic Gruen has a sense of humour. He just doesn't let it get the better of him:
Hmmm ... that kind of thing? Is it possible I've been caught by a cleverly crafted comeback?
Speaking of champagne comedy, anyone aspiring to greatness of gag ought look no further than Tony Robinson's Worst Jobs in History:
TR: "Why do we use cattle to plough fields, and not horses?"
Saxon farm doyen: "Cattle are beefier."
I mean, gold!
I enjoy funerals. Well, perhaps not the service per se, but the day in general. They are The Best time for catching up with old friends. Yesterday when I happened to mention this to one of my classes, they thought I was having a lend of them. No, I insisted, they are a blast. Cynical little bastards still looked sceptical. Mind you, events probably aren't much chop for the main attraction, although I'm sure even dead people get over their funeral in time.
By the way, I just went to a funeral. We were there to - in the clerical vernacular - Celebrate The Life of my best friend's mother.
Despite starting out a dour affair, things brightened up at the end when one of the many infants present spewed chunks of green snake lollies all over his mother. Laugh? It could only have been funnier had the boy done it mid-eulogy; right after the priest, responding to a relentless barrage of squealing toddlers, announced "I love children, feel free to let them run amok." Yeah, right. I'm sure one or two of the congregation believed him, but I wasn't convinced. He may as well have said he believed in God.
Addendum: My friend's mum kicked the bucket on August 29, the same day as my friend's dad died. The same day as my friend was born. And what's more, the very same day Michael Jackson was born.
Courtesy of speedy judge Marcus "Alibi" Einfeld and his team of heavy-hitting flacks (The Einfeldgruppen) this blog has a new motto:
"I can only say that I reject any inference of wrongdoing."
On the off chance you take issue with something I write, keep that in mind.
Been to the quack. Having been in hospital last year my GP advised a once-over from a specialist. "Just need to make sure," he said. "Tick the boxes, an all that." I said he sounded like a football coach.
Anyhoo, the specialist said exactly the same thing as the hospital quack who lost my records, the hospital quack who didn't lose my records, and my GP: I have low blood pressure. THAT box-ticking cost me $160. There are at least 160 different things I'd rather do with the money. Bet on the ICC scapegoating Darrell Hair, for a start, despite the piss poor odds. These medicos are on a good wicket, aren't they. Slyly manoevering their patients around to rake in the dough. What a lurk.
You'll be happy to know the low blood pressure isn't bad. Because I'm too cool for my own good, I've plenty of room left to throw violent tantrums without the related stress issues. So, that's something to look forward to. But at 160 bucks for 10 minutes, you'd think the doctor would have come up with a better remedy than "Eat more salt." That's right - salt. Surprised he didn't pull out a jar of leeches, or stick mercury up my date.
<-- A snack best served with a cleansing beaker of brine.
Do talkback callers ever listen to themselves? This from a recent SEN Superquiz:
Bruce: "Next is Bob from Rowville* on line two."
Bob: "G'day, Bruce. Phew! My finger is sore from redialing."
Bruce: "Tough to get through was it?"
* Possibly not Rowville. However, extensive, elaborate and detailed guesswork has delivered solid anecdotal evidence that there are more talkback callers from Rowville than any other suburb in Straya.
Just spent the weekend carelessly spitting, coughing and sneezing. Not to mention grizzling about a sore throat and head archie.
They* say teachers are more susceptible to colds than most. Something about being exposed to all those different levels of hygiene amongst the students. But I don't know. That sounds more like the teacher unions trying to one-up the nursing unions. Nevertheless, I make sure I keep my distance from the noxious oinks.
Still feel shouse, by the way, but I'm a trooper, so I'm off to attend to my responsibilities. And to give my germs back. Bastards!
* You know - they.
It's turned out John Mark Karr may be making it all up. Well, porkies or not, he's still creepy. Listening to him on television last night I was sure he was about to mutter "My dog's name is Precious, you know."
Gruesome news from the front. The front of the checkout line, that is. Standing before me last night was a young mum toting a loud boy:
~~ Loud Boy: "I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy! I want toy!"
~~ Mum: "No toy."
~~ Loud Boy: "TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY, etc"
Loud Boy eventually shut his piehole long enough for his mum to pay the bill and scarper redfaced, at which point I moved up to the register.
~~ Checkout Boy: "How are you today, sir?"
~~ TT: "I want toy."
Boynton is always saying to me, "T, you should get a head massage." Well, as unlikely as that prospect seemed, yesterday I did. At Donc Shoppingtown. This mini Odd Job, brandishing thumbs the size of forearms, ordered me to "Sit!" and set about inflicting pain. Pain in the name of good health and well-being, of course, but pain all the same. Not that I'm convinced about the good health an well-being bit, either. Sure, my vision went fuzzy, which may be a good sign, but what I really wanted to do was go to sleep. For ten bucks I could have stayed at home, eaten a big meal and had a doze. Still, I've this vague sensation it WAS good for me, I just don't know how.
I'm hoping Boynton now starts with the "T, you should win the lottery." It would be bound to happen. I mean, how hard can it be? 6, 7, 17, 23, 25, 32. I take it Tatts make contact when you win? "Congratulations, we saw the winning numbers on your blog and guess what? You've WON NINE MILLION DOLLARS!" Or do I have to put the numbers somewhere?
From Friday night's Weightline:
MARY MCDONALD, REPORTER: They start out as fresh faced and fit recruits. But years of shift work and stress can eventually take their toll on police. Once toned bodies often end up taking on a more portly complexion. Now some self professed overweight officers want to change all that, and, in a nutshell, dump the plump.
* Resistance was futile.
Received a delivery note in my letter-box last evening. It was too late to contact DHL, so today I followed the instructions on the back. "Please contact the highlighted service centre on the back page of this card and arrange to: [Options]."
Looking at the back I saw there were three service centres in Braxtoria, Tullamarine, Melbourne and Mulgrave, none of which were highlighted. Taking a stab I rang the closest one - Melbourne.
TT: "G'day, just got one of your Unsuccessful Delivery Attempt notes in the mail."
DHL: "Righto, what's your Waybill Number?"
TT: "Number? All it says is Metta Box."
TT: "Metta Box."
DHL: "Metta Box?"
TT: "That's what I said."
DHL: "Never heard of it. What's your address?"
TT: "Tony.T, Tigerland."
DHL: "Hang on a tick."
Yells out to co-league:
DHL: "That delivery you made to Tigerland yesterday?"
DHL: "You deliver it?"
DHL: "Well, the customer's rung up arxing where whatever it is is."
George: "Left it where the lectric thing goes. You know, the metta box."
Did you know the correct pronunciation of flaccid is not flassid? No, neither did I until Boynton pointed it out. She was reading a Big Book of Things, one of those tomes chock full of juicy tat-bits, when she stumbled upon this startling state of affairs.
Failing the flaccid test:
The Renegade Theatre Experiment opened last week with its latest offering, "The PornoZombies," a staged opportunity burdened with an audience-limiting title. Unfortunately, the world premiere of Matt Casarino's play also comes burdened with more than its operating moniker.
Naturally, we didn't believe it at first, so she jumped on Google (that can't be comfortable) to see what was what droop-wise and discovered that although nearly everyone says flassid, that's in fact limproper usage, the correct way to say it is flaxid.
Who'd have thought it. And me a sky-on of private education.
Thursday on The Conversation Hour and Terry Lane is slurpishly sucking up Debbie Reynolds: "When you were making Singing in the Rain, you'll always be Kathy Sheldon to me, etc". And Kathy Selden to everyone else.
IS IT ME? AM I ON YET?
Long time commenter, first time blogger.
Rodney Hogg on SEN: "Hansie Cronje was assassinated, no doubt about it. The plane crash was not an accident."
Why does Foxtel have An American Werewolf in Paris on high rotation, were-as An American Werewolf in London is rarely, if ever, shown?
NO HARM DONE
Favourable signs for the Ashes. Steve Harmison has used up his one good day for the year.
Are we that buggered for talent in Strayan sports commentary? Robert Fidgeon: "Fox Footy's Clinton Grybas, one of the top three sports commentators in Australia." Or TV critics?
Speaking of The Conversation Hour - Ba! Dum! Early this year I was fleeing Sydney through the suburb of Engadine, listening to Minette Walters, when it occurred to me that Engadine would make a great name for poison. "I am sorry," oozed D'Sartor malevolently. "But there is no antidote to living in Sydney." So, is Engadine a nice place, then?
Tony Grieg gorn?
while Benaud was happy to talk publicly about the length of his contract, others were not. Tony Greig, for instance, bristled when we broached the subject of his future, a relevant inquiry we thought, given that his good friend Kerry Packer is no longer with us and also because, despite Packer's longstanding support, he invariably finishes near the bottom of popularity polls.
Big call by Nick Bray and/or Sean Fewster in the Hun TV guide: "Much of [The new Dr Who] success comes from the appeal of Rose, arguably the best companion the Doctor has had."
Scoop! Two cops just nicked a guy in the street, right outside my house beside the tree. From the look of the malefactor he was known to police, too. A right villain. A toerag. A scrote. Nor did he go quietly - he grabbed a parking sign and despite encouragement from the boys in blue, took an eon to let go. I wanted him to scream "You ain't gonna take me alive, copper!" and jump off the curb into the gutter, but he just mumbled something about why a television happened to be sitting on the footpath.
Sadly, neither cop told me to "Move along, sir, nothing to see here", all I got was a cheery "G'day, mate". He must have been the good cop. I was tempted to ask if he'd like to borrow my telephone book, but I figured that might be pressing the bounds of cordiality.
TV's still there, by the way.
Update! Looks like someone is having trouble shifting the goods. Dunno why. That's some choice swag.
A little culture then:
ART treasures worth $7 million have been banned from sale as two former lovers trade barbs in a legal fight involving Deputy Lord Mayor Gary Singer.
Pitted against each other in the battle for riches are ex-partners National Gallery of Victoria curator Geoffrey Smith and art dealer Robert Gould.
At the heart of the feud are paintings by Australian masters including Sidney Nolan, Arthur Boyd and Charles Blackman.
The court fight has unveiled a lifestyle of overseas trips, designer suits, extravagant dinners, property portfolios and an alleged love triangle.
Speaking of art, this is some other TT. Which is odd, really, and not a little coincidental, because yesterday Boynton and I clipped our freebie coupons from the Herald Sun and tooled along to the Pablo Show at the NGV. There were hundreds of paintings, photos and fillums on display, many of which we enjoyed seeing (Or is that viewing?) despite having to endure the experience with hoards of other vile couponistas:
Richmond's Grand Hotel is reviewed in today's Age Magazine:
My date's eye falls upon the item like a hungry Olympic Park dishlicker on the lure. "Rabbit of the day," says he, in a tone I chose to interpret as one of awe in my ability to find interesting places to eat. Indeed, it's something I've never seen either, but if it makes sense anywhere, it's at the Grand, Richmond's increasingly superb gastro-pub with Italian ticker.
Were you running an eatery, would you want it referred to as a gastro-eatery? I mean, having endured the odd bout o' blurts, gastro doesn't conjure up fond food memories; especially in the date's eye department.
Unpalatable criticism from the unimpressed cook:
GLOBE-TROTTING celebrity chef Jamie Oliver has described Melbourne as one of the most drug-plagued cities in the world. In an exclusive interview with the Sunday Herald Sun, the English chef unleashed a broadside on the city's drug-addled underbelly.
Oliver revealed that the shock of seeing young drug addicts shooting up in St Kilda swayed him to choose Australia for his latest restaurant project. "I've been loads of places, right, and Melbourne is the only place I have ever seen multiple kids jacking up on the street," Oliver said. "Don't get me wrong, every city has its light and shade, but you do have your share of shade."
Do media organisations make money out of polls? They must. It has become impossible to read the paper, watch television, or listen to the radio without being confronted by a set of dubious options. Frankly, I'm sick of it.
Are you sick of polls?
"Do gay men go to the doctor more than non-gay men? Not, you know, to cure their gayness, but in general."
That, and other crucial questions answered here. (At the special gay number.)
So, Anglicare bilked punters with charity letters designed to look like power bills. Big deal. Doubtless the stupidheads were just taking a leaf out of the Good Books of all the other religions who are obviously way more stupid. "When in Rome, don't be a Christian", and all that.
No, what's more concerning is that the Perpetually Outraged would confuse deception with idiocy. Here is a letter to yesterday's Hun:
As a church-going Anglican, I am outraged any committed Christian would seek to resort to deceptive tactics to raise funds for a charity, no matter how badly those funds were needed.
Three of my reading-circle friends received the "final notice" from Anglicare. It distressed one so badly her husband had to come home from work to comfort her.
We shall be writing to the Synod and making a formal complaint, requesting disciplinary action against those involved.
It is unacceptable at any level.
That's a piss-take, right? Gotta be.